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without　having　to　pray　about　it。〃



〃I　can't　picture　you　as　being　unforgiving　for　long；〃　said　Stella。



〃Oh；　I　used　to　be。　　But　holding　spite　doesn't　seem　worth　while

when　you　get　along　in　years。〃



〃That　reminds　me；〃　said　Anne；　and　told　the　tale　of　John　and　Janet。



〃And　now　tell　us　about　that　romantic　scene　you　hinted　so　darkly

at　in　one　of　your　letters；〃　demanded　Phil。



Anne　acted　out　Samuel's　proposal　with　great　spirit。　　The　girls

shrieked　with　laughter　and　Aunt　Jamesina　smiled。



〃It　isn't　in　good　taste　to　make　fun　of　your　beaux；〃　she　said

severely；　〃but；〃　she　added　calmly；　〃I　always　did　it　myself。〃



〃Tell　us　about　your　beaux；　Aunty；　〃en　treated　Phil。　　〃You　must

have　had　any　number　of　them。〃



〃They're　not　in　the　past　tense；〃　retorted　Aunt　Jamesina。

〃I've　got　them　yet。　　There　are　three　old　widowers　at　home

who　have　been　casting　sheep's　eyes　at　me　for　some　time。

You　children　needn't　think　you　own　all　the　romance　in　the　world。〃



〃Widowers　and　sheep's　eyes　don't　sound　very　romantic；　Aunty。〃



〃Well；　no；　but　young　folks　aren't　always　romantic　either。

Some　of　my　beaux　certainly　weren't。　　I　used　to　laugh　at　them

scandalous；　poor　boys。　　There　was　Jim　Elwood　　he　was　always　in

a　sort　of　day…dream　　never　seemed　to　sense　what　was　going　on。

He　didn't　wake　up　to　the　fact　that　I'd　said　‘no'　till　a　year

after　I'd　said　it。　　When　he　did　get　married　his　wife　fell　out　of

the　sleigh　one　night　when　they　were　driving　home　from　church　and

he　never　missed　her。　　Then　there　was　Dan　Winston。　　He　knew　too　much。

He　knew　everything　in　this　world　and　most　of　what　is　in　the　next。

He　could　give　you　an　answer　to　any　question；　even　if　you　asked　him

when　the　Judgment　Day　was　to　be。　　Milton　Edwards　was　real　nice　and

I　liked　him　but　I　didn't　marry　him。　　For　one　thing；　he　took　a　week

to　get　a　joke　through　his　head；　and　for　another　he　never　asked　me。

Horatio　Reeve　was　the　most　interesting　beau　I　ever　had。　　But　when　he

told　a　story　he　dressed　it　up　so　that　you　couldn't　see　it　for　frills。

I　never　could　decide　whether　he　was　lying　or　just　letting　his

imagination　run　loose。〃



〃And　what　about　the　others；　Aunty？〃



〃Go　away　and　unpack；〃　said　Aunt　Jamesina；　waving　Joseph　at　them　by

mistake　for　a　needle。　　〃The　others　were　too　nice　to　make　fun　of。

I　shall　respect　their　memory。　　There's　a　box　of　flowers　in

your　room；　Anne。　　They　came　about　an　hour　ago。〃



After　the　first　week　the　girls　of　Patty's　Place　settled　down　to　a

steady　grind　of　study；　for　this　was　their　last　year　at　Redmond

and　graduation　honors　must　be　fought　for　persistently。　　Anne

devoted　herself　to　English；　Priscilla　pored　over　classics；　and

Philippa　pounded　away　at　Mathematics。　　Sometimes　they　grew　tired；

sometimes　they　felt　discouraged；　sometimes　nothing　seemed　worth

the　struggle　for　it。　　In　one　such　mood　Stella　wandered　up　to　the

blue　room　one　rainy　November　evening。　　Anne　sat　on　the　floor　in　a

little　circle　of　light　cast　by　the　lamp　beside　her；　amid　a

surrounding　snow　of　crumpled　manuscript。



〃What　in　the　world　are　you　doing？〃



〃Just　looking　over　some　old　Story　Club　yarns。　　I　wanted　something

to　cheer　AND　inebriate。　　I'd　studied　until　the　world　seemed　azure。

So　I　came　up　here　and　dug　these　out　of　my　trunk。　　They　are　so　drenched

in　tears　and　tragedy　that　they　are　excruciatingly　funny。〃



〃I'm　blue　and　discouraged　myself；〃　said　Stella；　throwing　herself

on　the　couch。　　〃Nothing　seems　worthwhile。　　My　very　thoughts　are

old。　　I've　thought　them　all　before。　　What　is　the　use　of　living

after　all；　Anne？〃



〃Honey；　it's　just　brain　fag　that　makes　us　feel　that　way；　and　the　weather。

A　pouring　rainy　night　like　this；　coming　after　a　hard　day's　grind；　would

squelch　any　one　but　a　Mark　Tapley。　　You　know　it　IS　worthwhile　to　live。〃



〃Oh；　I　suppose　so。　　But　I　can't　prove　it　to　myself　just　now。〃



〃Just　think　of　all　the　great　and　noble　souls　who　have　lived　and

worked　in　the　world；〃　said　Anne　dreamily。　　〃Isn't　it　worthwhile

to　come　after　them　and　inherit　what　they　won　and　taught？　　Isn't

it　worthwhile　to　think　we　can　share　their　inspiration？　　And　then；

all　the　great　souls　that　will　come　in　the　future？　　Isn't　it

worthwhile　to　work　a　little　and　prepare　the　way　for　them　

make　just　one　step　in　their　path　easier？〃



〃Oh；　my　mind　agrees　with　you；　Anne。　　But　my　soul　remains　doleful

and　uninspired。　　I'm　always　grubby　and　dingy　on　rainy　nights。〃



〃Some　nights　I　like　the　rain　　I　like　to　lie　in　bed　and　hear　it

pattering　on　the　roof　and　drifting　through　the　pines。〃



〃I　like　it　when　it　stays　on　the　roof；〃　said　Stella。　　〃It　doesn't

always。　　I　spent　a　gruesome　night　in　an　old　country　farmhouse

last　summer。　　The　roof　leaked　and　the　rain　came　pattering　down　on

my　bed。　　There　was　no　poetry　in　THAT。　　I　had　to　get　up　in　the

‘mirk　midnight'　and　chivy　round　to　pull　the　bedstead　out　of　the

drip　　and　it　was　one　of　those　solid；　old…fashioned　beds　that

weigh　a　ton　　more　or　less。　　And　then　that　drip…drop；　drip…drop

kept　up　all　night　until　my　nerves　just　went　to　pieces。　　You've　no

idea　what　an　eerie　noise　a　great　drop　of　rain　falling　with　a

mushy　thud　on　a　bare　floor　makes　in　the　night。　　It　sounds　like

ghostly　footsteps　and　all　that　sort　of　thing。　　What　are　you

laughing　over；　Anne？〃



〃These　stories。　　As　Phil　would　say　they　are　killing　　in　more　senses

than　one；　for　everybody　died　in　them。　　What　dazzlingly　lovely　heroines

we　had　　and　how　we　dressed　them！　　Silks　　satins　　velvets　　jewels

　laces　　they　never　wore　anything　else。　　Here　is　one　of　Jane　Andrews'

stories　depicting　her　heroine　as　sleeping　in　a　beautiful　white　satin

nightdress　trimmed　with　seed　pearls。〃



〃Go　on；〃　said　Stella。　　〃I　begin　to　feel　that　life　is　worth　living

as　long　as　there's　a　laugh　in　it。〃



〃Here's　one　I　wrote。　　My　heroine　is　disporting　herself　at　a　ball

‘glittering　from　head　to　foot　with　large　diamonds　of　the　first

water。'　　But　what　booted　beauty　or　rich　attire？　　‘The　paths　of

glory　lead　but　to　the　grave。'　　They　must　either　be　murdered　or　die

of　a　broken　heart。　　There　was　no　escape　for　them。〃



〃Let　me　read　some　of　your　stories。〃



〃Well；　here's　my　masterpiece。　　Note　its　cheerful　title　　‘My　Graves。'

I　shed　quarts　of　tears　while　writing　it；　and　the　other　girls　shed　gallons

while　I　read　it。　　Jane　Andrews'　mother　scolded　her　frightfully　because

she　had　so　many　handkerchiefs　in　the　wash　that　week。　　It's　a　harrowing

tale　of　the　wanderings　of　a　Methodist　minister's　wife。　　I　made　her　a

Methodist　because　it　was　necessary　that　she　should　wander。　　She　buried

a　child　every　place　she　lived　in。　　There　were　nine　of　them　and　their

graves　were　severed　far　apart；　ranging　from　Newfoundland　to　Vancouver。

I　described　the　children；　pictured　their　several　death　beds；　and

detailed　their　tombstones　and　epitaphs。　　I　had　intended　to　bury　the

whole　nine　but　when　I　had　disposed　of　eight　my　invention　of　horrors

gave　out　and　I　permitted　the　ninth　to　live　as　a　hopeless　cripple。〃



While　Stella　read　My　Graves；　punctuating　its　tragic　paragraphs

with　chuckles；　and　Rusty　slept　the　sleep　of　a　just　cat　who　has

been　out　all　night　curled　up　on　a　Jane　Andrews　tale　of　a　beautiful

maiden　of　fifteen　who　went　to　nurse　in　a　leper　colony　　of　course

dying　of　the　loathsome　disease　finally　　Anne　glanced　over　the　other

manuscripts　and　recalled　the　old　days　at　Avonlea　school　when　the　members

of　the　Story　Club；　sitting　under　the　spruce　trees　or　down　among　the

ferns　by　the　brook；　had　written　them。　　What　fun　they　had　had！

How　the　sunshine　and　mirth　of　those　olden　summers　returned　as　she　read。

Not　all　the　glory　that　was　Greece　or　the　grandeur　that　was　Rome　could

weave　such　wizardry　as　those　funny；　tearful　tales　of　the　Story　Club。

Among　the　manuscripts　Anne　found　one　written　on　sheets　of　wrapping　paper。

A　wave　of　laughter　filled　her　gray　eyes　as　she　recalled　the　time　and

place　of　its　genesis。　　It　was　the　sketch　she　had　written　the　day　she

fell　through　the　roof　of　the　Cobb　duckhouse　on　the　Tory　Road。



Anne　glanced　over　it；　then　fell　to　reading　it　intently。　　It　was　a

little　dialogue　between　asters　and　sweet…peas；　wild　canaries　in　the

lilac　bush；　and　the　guardian　spirit　of　the　garden。　　After　she　had

read　it；　she　sat；　staring　into　space；　and　when　Stella　had　gone　she

smoothed　out　the　crumpled　manuscript。



〃I　believe　I　will；〃　she　said　resolutely。









Chapter　XXXVI



The　Gardners'Call





〃Here　is　a　letter　with　an　Indian　stamp　for　you；　Aunt　Jimsie；〃

said　Phil。　　〃Here　are　three　for　Stella；　and　two　for　Pris；　and　a

glorious　fat　one　for　me　from　Jo。　　There's　nothing　for　you；　Anne；

except　a　circular。〃



Nobody　noticed　Anne's　flush　as　she　took　the　thin　letter　Phil　tossed

her　carelessly。　　But　a　few　minutes　later　Phil　looked　up　to　see　a

transfigured　Anne。



〃Honey；　what　good　thing　has　happened？〃



〃The　Youth's　Friend　has　accepted　a　little　sketch　I　sent　them　a

fortnight　ago；〃　said　Anne；　trying　hard　to　speak　as　if　she　were

accustomed　to　having　sketches